


Nightlife

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Begging, Clothed Sex, Dark Comedy, Dirty Talk, Drug Use, Edging, F/M, Frottage, Gamzee being Gamzee, Hair Pulling, Humanstuck, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Kurloz loves his bro, M/M, Minor Body-horror, Minor Character Death, Physical Abuse, Piercings, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Public Sex, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Destruction, Self-Hatred, Self-Mutilation, Sibling Incest, Tattoos, basically don't read if you don't like sex, far too much, just to assure no one can be triggered, minor dom/sub undertones, minor/infrequent suicidal thoughts, sex in general, sex in lots of different places, tags will be listed at the beginning of each chapter, world building
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-04-12 10:17:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4475630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I want to know how to survive in the nightlife<br/>The truth and dare of the drug for the first time<br/>I click my heels and dance with the heat rise<br/>I want to know how to survive in the nightlife<br/>- IAMX</p><p>----</p><p>But that's just the beginning of the start, the end of the beginning. There's no point telling the story like that; gotta start from the beginning of the end. The primary concern is not your closely creeping death, it is the events prior. And that's what this story is about. It's about pain and regret and agony, self-hatred and sickness, and complete and utter limerence.<br/>But above all, this is the story of how Kurloz Makara survived the Nightlife.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Only In Death

**Author's Note:**

> As of now, I'll post triggers and such at the beginning of each chapter (considering that certain warnings may only apply to a single chapter, so tagging isn't really that necessary).  
> If mentions of self-hatred, physical abuse, MINOR and/or infrequent suicidal thoughts upset or bother you, I wouldn't recommend reading this fic. Very minor body-horror in the first chapter. 
> 
> Updates will actually occur with this fic. I promise. 
> 
> -
> 
> Enjoy if you can, my loves!

Your name is Kurloz Makara, although it could be anything at all right now, because you are on your deathbed, relaxing slowly into the danger, letting the sheets bind you to your inescapable fate. 

The worst aspect about you was that you never learned; you did whatever you wanted to do, even after several years of being spoon-fed what is 'right' and 'wrong' at school. You did what you enjoyed even if it hurt people or put others in danger, with no regards to their safety so you could laugh a little. You could manipulate even the most stubborn of mules, getting into their heads as easily as a fish could glide through the ocean.

What's worse is, it's not even your fault that you're like this. 

Your emotions were transparent, not a single expression transcending your cold, yet neutral façade, not a glint of mischief, or even malice in your eyes when you brewed up horrific ideas for your next novel. You wrote. You could draw and paint with obvious skill and talent, but your written compositions were somewhat of a miracle, while still holding your classic brooding accents, the signature ominous shadows that laced the words you typed, they were so innocent and beautiful, so friendly and welcoming. It depended on if the person reading it possessed the same dark mind as you had. You had an ancient vintage typewriter, it was your mother's, and her mother's, and so on for generations. You never had a sister, as your mother had desired, so it was 'given' to you as a last resort. You were always treated that way by your mother, the son she never wanted, a cast-off stitch, just waiting to silently unravel the threads of perfection that she had loomed around herself and her pride, shielding herself from mishaps and mistakes, like you. 

She tried to get rid of you at one point.  
You were only 5-years-old, and you were not yet the monster you consider yourself to be today. Your father had left very soon after your little brother, Gamzee, was born just over a year ago, taking his second son and leaving to heavens know where, fearing for the newborn's safety, leaving you with a volatile alcoholic mother who beat you violently for the smallest of mistakes. He promised he'd come back, and you believed him; you were still under the impression that he was 'on his way'. You cried hard and begged her to stop ramming her fists into your stomach before you went to school that morning, grasping the hem of her dress and trying to drag yourself off the floor, clinging to her and shuddering as you sobbed. You couldn't stand; her fists just kept smashing into your abdomen, you were practically doubled over, stomach cramping, the only protest you could make being pitiful screams and broken moans. 

You didn't know what you'd done wrong, maybe it was the coffee stains on the cuffs of your shirt from earlier, when you'd overestimated your height and tried to pour the water without getting the chair that you usually stood on, so you could reach the counter. You were wearing the same socks as yesterday, maybe that was it, or that you'd not put the butter on her toast properly that morning, which was due to the fact that you'd cut your fingers gathering shards of a shattered wine bottle that she threw in a fit of rage the previous night. It hurt to hold anything from the slashes in your skin, but you grabbed hold of her and tried to make her stop, hugging her waist as you forced yourself to your feet, trembling like a house in a hurricane, legs constantly threatening to collapse underneath you and render you helpless. You whined as she grabbed your wrists and shoved you back against the wall, and you slid down slowly, hugging your knees to your chest and hiding your face. 

"What have we learned?" she demanded, her blade-sharp voice making your tiny body flinch violently.  
You didn't know, and you only whimpered as you tried desperately to form an answer, wrapping your thin arms around your shrunken frame and trembling, sniffing and rubbing tears from your sickly pale face. You had skin the colour of piano keys, unnaturally ivory, with the wild raven hair to frame it. You were like a piano, in colour scheme, your father had always told you, back when he was there to love you, and he took your tiny hands in his and flicked your fingers down, making different noises for each one, and you thought that it was the funniest thing in the world, smile as wide as your face. You grinned up at him with a shine in your almost indigo eyes, which he never shunned you for, like your mother did. She called you a freak, with your paper skin and your inky hair, borderline purple irises, nothing like her, everything like your father. 

"Answer me!" she yelled, and you shook your head, black curls hiding your hands as you dried your eyes, only for tears to spill out again the more you tried to stop them. "I do-I don't know, mommy" you'd whispered, and she grabbed you by the back of your hair, dragging you harshly to your feet, eliciting a pained cry, the sound of your sobbing returning instantly after.  
"You NEVER disobey me, do you understand?"  
You nodded rapidly (as rapidly as her vice grip on your hair would allow), despite having no clue as to how or when you disobeyed her, and she dropped you to your knees and walked away, stepping into the kitchen and throwing her head back as she gulped vodka from the bottle, the clear liquid disappearing down her throat. In a matter of seconds, she'd drowned about a quarter of the contents, taking one final gulp before she removed it from her lips. 

You'd grabbed your backpack and rushed out of the door, trying to cease your crying before you got to school.

\---

When you came home, pushing the door with shaking fingers, she was sitting at the round table in the kitchen, and she offered you a sickly smile as you walked in, and you attempted poorly to return her expression, feeling dreadfully ill as you approached her. She placed a hand around your narrow shoulders as you neared her, making you flinch, and she kneeled down beside you, smiling again as she spoke,

"How was school?" you gulped, and nodded, not daring to say that you were violently ill the second you got through the door, shaking too much to write anything and the cuts on your hands too painful for you to type anything up as an alternative. She never asked how your day was; if you were OK.  
She reached up to the table, taking a small plastic cup from the surface and opening a cupboard, taking a container and looking down at you, unscrewing the cap from the white, labelled jug. You had no idea what Clorox was, but it smelled like the floor when it was just mopped, and it was thick and glistening as she poured some into the cup. 

"Does it still hurt?"  
Did /what/ hurt? Everything hurt: Your stomach, your hands, your head, everything at least ached, and you nodded, and she ducked down beside you again and kissed your cheek gently, and your eyes grew wide; you couldn't remember the last time she kissed you, and you smiled properly for the first time in a long, long while. She handed you the cup then, ruffling your midnight hair and talking to you quietly, "drink this, it'll make it go away. I promise. Look, mommy can do it, too. Trust me" she insisted, and you nodded hesitantly. It didn't smell nice and you certainly didn't want to put it anywhere near your lips, let alone swallow it, but you knew what would happen if you disobeyed her. You watched as she rummaged about atop the table for a few moments, a thin syringe soon balanced in her long, slender fingers. You didn't expect her to produce that when she claimed that she would do what you were doing, but then again, maybe it was just a quicker way to get it inside you? You pondered, eyes darting around uneasily, and she looked down to you again,  
"Drink"  
"I love you" you whispered, ignoring her order, and she looked as though she might have actually smiled.  
"I know baby...But you shouldn't...You should never love me"  
"Why?"  
"Drink. Go on, all of it" 

And you did.  
You tipped the thick, pungent fluid into your mouth and instantly gagged, retching as even the first tiny drop slithered its way down your throat. Your mother put her hand over yours on the cup, forcing it back into your mouth and ignoring your fruitless tugs at her wrists, not letting go until she was sure that you'd swallowed at least 90% of it. She let go then, and you dropped the plastic beaker instantly, spitting what you could that remained of the liquid out of your mouth, strings of the turbid solution dripping between your lips and down your face, clotting in your throat. There was still a substantial layer of the ghastly mixture lining your mouth, a sort of grease covering the insides of your cheeks, and you just wanted to wash it all out or vomit it back up.

You shuddered and looked up at her, only to see her with her head hung back over the chair, injecting the contents of the syringe into a predominant, lavender vein on her left wrist. She dropped the needle to the floor and you padded to her, shaking her arm gently, whispering for her, eyes watering no matter how much you blinked. Your optics felt like they'd fallen pray to a torrent of battery acid, raw, unmasked agony, like someone was shoving pins into them and you could feel each and every one travelling through your veins, how it stung like antiseptic to a razor wound. 

The next wave came over you, and you choked a long, drawn-out moan from your burning throat as you doubled over and clutched your cramping stomach, collapsing and falling to the floor. You tried to push the insane torment aside as you crawled down the carpeted hallway, only managing to stand for a few short seconds to grasp hold of the landline receiver before you crumbled again and fell back, fingers shaking as you pressed the numbers '911' on the buttons. 

As soon as a voice emitted from the phone, you started feeling dreadfully sick, and you were more worried about how angry your mother would be if you vomited on her new carpet, until the woman on the other end of the phone spoke again.  
"Hello? This is 911, what's your emergency?" She repeated, and you took a shaky breath, holding the phone with both hands.  
"I-I I don- I don't know" you managed to say between your now apparent sobbing, and the woman's voice turned to a concerned, yet urgent plea for your information. All you can say when she asks 'what's wrong?' Is that you drank something, and so did your mother, but she seems to accept it, promising that someone would come and help you, and you just thank her and drop the phone to the ground, exploding into a violent fit of coughs and hacks, choking and sobbing. 

Your vision was blurred and your head hurt badly as you heard the door open, trying your best to analyse what was happening, and before you could quite grasp the situation, a woman with long royal purple ringlets in her hair dropped to the floor beside you. She was wearing a long white coat and black jeans, sympathy and concern etched into her youthful, pretty face as she lifted you gently into her arms, cradling you in her lap and running her fingers through your hair, like she knew you. Several more people raced in after her, but you didn't care to look, wrapping your arms around the woman's neck and crying quietly.

You only managed a few broken, ragged breaths and you had to push her away, leaning over and coughing, retching before you turbulently eructed the contents of your stomach. It was too late to worry about your mother's carpet. The woman leaned over and rubbed circles on your back, and you looked up at her, violaceous eyes freshly wet and shimmering with new pools of tears.  
"Don't tell her; she'll be angry-" you begged, interrupted by a strangulated, drawn-out moan as you clutched your stomach, feeling it clench and constrict your breathing. You squirmed uncomfortably as you attempted vainly to find a way to position yourself that took the constant pressure off your abdomen, and she wrapped her arms around you again as you crawled over to her, and she started asking questions. 

"How much of it did you drink?" She almost whispered to you, (her accent was extremely British), and you shrugged as much as your aching limbs would allow you to, turning and pointing to where the other people were crowded around your mother, and that was when she stood up and lifted you into her arms, turning and walking out of the house. She just stood and held you as you tried to tell her everything without stuttering and coughing mid-word, and you shut up as a tall male in a long, cloak-like ivory jacket stepped out to you, producing the cup that your mother put the Clorox in, and he started asking the questions then. His voice was rougher and more demanding than the woman's, and you flinched at the sharpness of his tone; it was almost like your mother's, with an almost scary likeness. 

"Is that what you drank it from?"  
You just nodded back to him, and he turned to the woman who was holding you then, and you rested your head on her sizeable chest, and she combed her fingers through your curls, looking over at the man who loomed over you with a stern look on his face.  
"How much?"  
"I'm sorry?"  
"How much liquid can it hold? In fluid ounces" the amaranth-haired woman asked him, mirroring the sharpness in his voice and the scowl on his face. He checked the cup, a little taken-aback, and looked back to her.  
"3 ounces at the brim, she couldn't give im' no more. In fact, 'e gotta av' had less"  
He said, a strong, chiefly Irish accent cutting his words, and the woman nodded. "Get him some milk" she demanded, and the man raised an eyebrow.  
"Milk? He needs a hospital, don't 'e?"  
"No. I'm not putting him through that. It's his mother that needs a hospital. If she wakes up, LOCK her up. He had two ounces of bleach, just get him some milk" 

The man turned around then, padding back into the house, and the woman looked down to you. You returned the look, your hands on her shoulders as you sat back slightly, and she asked,  
"What's your name, darling?"  
"Kurloz Makara"  
"Right...How old are you?"  
"5...I'm 6 in December. December the 31st"  
The woman nodded, only holding you close to her and watching as several men came out of the house with your mother's body on some sort of wheeled contraption that you had never seen before, and you didn't want to look for fear of crying harder. You attempted to distract yourself.

"What's your name?" You managed to ask, looking up at the woman and rubbing your stinging eyes, and she smiled down at you.  
"I'm Diana. I'm 28, 29 in February. February the 20th" she'd replied, mirroring your sentence structure, and you managed a smile. You were wondering what was going to happen to you now, your mind was slowly clearing and your nausea had passed for now, at least. You were about to try and ask her just what would come of you, when the man she had ordered to bring milk came scuttling out of the house, thrusting a large glass cup out to you and Diana, and the woman took it with a false, icy smile, her full, round lips seemingly stretched out and unnatural as she looked at him. "Thank-you" she said finally, passing you the cup, and you felt her strong arms encasing your lithe body as you leaned back slightly, her limbs still firm and unmoving, and it was reassuring, the security you never had. 

You drank the liquid, slowly at first, but when you felt the gloriously smooth, cooling sensation soothe your burning throat, you tipped the cup higher and gulped it down for all that you were worth, not pausing or slowing down. For the first time since the Clorox incident, as you had decided to call it, you felt so completely healthy; the venomous taste clogging your throat was numbing away, the acid sting in your eyes melting slowly, your stomach didn't feel like your bones were compressing and crushing it. You took a desperately needed breath as you drowned the last drop of the pearly white liquid, and wiped the excess from your lips with a content sigh. 

Diana looked at you with a beautiful shine in her eyes, a real, yet gentle smile on her face as the man left you alone, and she kissed your forehead, turning away from your house and walking away to follow the rest of her crew.  
"Where are we going?"  
"You're going to your father and your brother. I'm going to take you there. Is that OK?"  
You don't even have to think; of course it's OK, it's perfect...But your mother, what was going to happen to her? Where was she going? You turned your attention to the large white van in the road beside your house, you watched your mother's body as they lifted the wheeled contraption into the back of the van. She looked peaceful, like she'd stopped trying, her cropped red curls were draped perfectly around her heart-shaped face, from which the rage and tension was gone. Her make-up was nonexistent, and her narrow, curved shoulders were slumped naturally against the bed, relaxed and at ease. She looked like she was happily sleeping, content in her dreams, trapped in paradise somewhere, maybe in heaven. She looked happy. Caring. Peaceful. Idyllic. Beautiful. She didn't look like your mother. 

"She's never coming back, is she?" You asked gently, and Diana stopped, shocked, one hand curled in your hair, and you felt her bulky chest rise as she inhaled deeply, considered, and finally said,

"No" 

\----

Everything from there was an odd blur of insane happiness, dark depression and wavering hatred and adoration, one moment deciding that you were glad that you'd never see the cruel woman again, and the next day, you would wake up and just sit and bawl your eyes out, crying for your mother and pushing anyone else away. Diana took you to a strange building which housed dozens of other children while she contacted your father. You were there for two days and a night. Your father had turned up at an obscure hour of the morning to come and get you from the centre, and despite the time, you'd gathered what little property you possessed and raced out of the door into the black night, sprinting to the first figure you could make out, not even bothering to look and check if it was your father before you launched yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his neck and laughing. 

He didn't respond for a few seconds, then you heard him sniff as he wrapped his arms around you, tears glinting in the lucid moonlight as they fell from his face, and you looked up to see a genuine smile on his lips, a look of complete devotion and adulation in his dark purple eyes (you came to realise that they were actually dark silver-flecked blue, like your own, and in certain light, they looked indigo). His hair was cut shorter than yours, but was still as wild and untamed. His skin was as white as yours, the same sharp features, but his shoulders were broad and his arms strong, he looked like he was built for war, physical combat, and generally ruining people. But the way he caressed you as he pulled you to his chest, kissing your cheeks as he tilted your face to look at him, felt like he was the complete opposite. Your tiny hands grasped at the fabric of his shirt, and he kissed your nose, and you grinned at him.  
"I never should have left you...My son, my boy" he whispered to you, his voice rough and gravelly, but to you, it was the smoothest and sweetest sound ever known to man. 

"I love you daddy" you replied simply, pressing your face into his shoulder, and he took a sort of affirmative, final sniff, and he replied,  
"I love you, little one" 

 

\----

 

Then he took you away, across the whole of the USA, from Washington to Florida (you drove for 45 hours with no complaint, which you're sure your father appreciated). You moved over to his huge, manor-like house with your brother (who instantly loved you), you were happy and your bruises were healing and your scars were fading. Then you started a new school, always sticking by your brother, who couldn't get enough of your company. 

You never even asked why your father left you, you never questioned anything; you were happy and safe now and you wanted to keep it that way, and you feared that asking questions and pressing matters could put cracks in the thin ice that you and your family stood upon. You didn't want that. It was bad enough that you woke your father up multiple times a night for the first fortnight in your new home; you had the most horrific nightmares, and you'd wake up screaming and writhing, face wet with tears, the sheets around your legs sodden. 

He'd always be there, walking into you no matter the hour and taking you in his arms, cradling you to his chest and whispering all the consolation he could offer. You'd wrap your shaking arms around him and hide your face in the wide girth of his thorax, shutting your eyes as he let you sob, fingers combing through your ebony curls. "I love you, son" he'd whisper, after assuring you that she wasn't going to find you, "I ain' never letting her near you again, you hear? I'm not ever gonna let her so much as lay her evil eyes on you".

He held you like a porcelain doll, like you'd shatter if he did so much as put too much pressure on you, like your bones would snap under the grip of his hands. It was a wonder that someone so big, so strong, could offer you all the kindness and comfort in the world...But maybe that was just another miracle, like he used to tell you all the unexplainable things were.  
"What she gone and done to you, son?" he'd whisper, like you knew, and you tried to answer, but you'd just stutter and trip over the sentence. "I-I don't know, daddy" was what you'd reply, and he'd smile and kiss your forehead and ruffle your hair.  
You loved him, you loved your brother. You thought you were fine.  
You couldn't have been more wrong. 

-

But that's just the beginning of the start, the end of the beginning. There's no point telling the story like that; gotta start from the beginning of the end. The primary concern is not your closely creeping death, it is the events prior. And that's what this story is about. It's about pain and regret and agony, self-hatred and sickness, and complete and utter limerence.  
But above all, this is the story of how Kurloz Makara survived the Nightlife. 

-


	2. A Thousand Suns After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm awake, and I'm alive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a shitty excuse for a chapter I'm sorry  
> It's painfully mediocre but I'm so tired I haven't slept in literally three days now and I wrote this between 12 and 2:30 am. I promised a very kind commenter that I'd upload a chapter and here it is -pulls out of ass-

It's been 12 years since you moved to Florida with your father and your brother, and you're getting better at forgetting what your mother did to you; your nightmares are less frequent, you don't flinch as violently when someone yells or raises their arm, it's no longer that big of an issue if someone makes drastic or fast movements at you. You don't like it, and you doubt you'll ever stop jolting or wincing at sudden yells or shrinking back when someone's angry at you. You can deal with things better, though, and you're happy about that. Gamzee was always the most tolerant, even when your father wasn't. 

"You really think I'm gonna go and motherfucking hit you?" he'd sort of growl at you, and you'd just retreat back and hide your face behind your mass of curls, shrugging or shaking your head when he stayed silent and scrutinised you afterward. How could you know if he would or not? If you couldn't trust your own mother, who could you trust? You came to trust him completely, though; you could rest assured that he wouldn't lay an unkind finger on you by the time it was your 6th birthday. You and Gamzee were an instant pair, though, doing quite literally  
everything together and holding each-other's hands whenever you were out of the house. You were never far from him, and he preferred to be so close to you that he eventually began crawling into your bed to cuddle up to you at night, and you'd walk out of the bathroom to find him sat cross-legged outside the door, grinning up at your confused face. 

You were 7 years old when you met your best bro, Mituna Captor. You were sat beside each-other in class, and he'd always be asking you if he could borrow your stuff, as he had a tendency to do his math questions in an array of rainbow Crayola wax crayons. Once, he'd snapped one and had a small fit while spluttering and blubbering how sorry he was, and you'd patted his shoulder and told him that it was alright, and that he didn't need to worry; you had another yellow crayon. You'd handed said crayon to him, and he'd wiped his eyes and stared at you for a while, then smiled. You returned his grin, and it was then that you began properly talking to him, and from that day on, the two of you spent every school day together. You soon learnt that Mituna was autistic, and got bullied by a shit-eating asshole named Cronus Ampora. You were never fond of him after you found out about some of the cruel things he'd say to Mituna, simply because he tripped and stumbled over his words and butchered sentences. 

After you began defending your best friend against Cronus, it became apparent that he didn't like you much either, and you'd been sent to the principle several times for scraps and fights the two of you got in. Truth be told, when he yelled at you and grabbed for you for the first time, you were terrified, but when you glanced at Mituna, stood there in his bee shirt with that helmet he always carried around, tears streaming down his face, you'd been fuelled with rage. You suppose that it was lucky that you'd known him for 5 years and only ever punched him twice, you'd avoided a fully physical confrontation for too damn long. You we're putting him in his place. The Ampora had grabbed you by the shoulders and all-out quite literally thrown you to the ground, and you swear you've never made such a quick retaliation since the moment that you swung your leg around and kicked him in the shins. You were 12 years old, you were stronger, lithe and fast, petrified. Excited. It was adrenaline, you think. 

It was a merciless flurry of fists and him grabbing your hair after that, and maybe you weren't as strong as you thought, you weren't as invincible as you felt, but with each collision that your fist made with his face, you felt more and more immortal. It was when you saw the blood gushing from his busted nose and the split in his lip that you froze, eyes wide, fist drawn back and limbs trembling. You saw the look on his face, looked down at him pinned under you, your knees on either side of his hips, and you'd been paralysed. You were...You were like her. You were doing these things to him, you were doing what scared you so badly and made you thrash and scream at night. You felt evil. You were hit with a sudden wave of stomach-deep nausea, but as soon as you lowered your fist, he was on you;

He shoved you backward and you hit the floor head-first and hard, your vision blurred by shock and tears and the impact, and then he was just hitting you, no regard, relentless. You realised then that the world had no care, it didn't give a shit what you'd been through, and you couldn't give a shit either: bred to fight, humans were mere semi-domesticated beasts. You had the heart of a wild animal, and if you didn't use it to protect yourself, someone else's better controlled primal instinct would destroy you. You brought one arm up to shield your face, teeth gritted, and thought fast, mind racing, heart pumping, you screamed...

And smashed your knee into his crotch with the force and fury of a thousand Roman warriors.  
He'd screamed like the soundtrack of six hundred and sixty six virgin sacrifices.

As he fell back and released you, you'd scrambled from under his legs and crawled back across the dirt, your skull aching and your right eye on fire, your arms numb and knees shaking. You were battered and bruised, face and fingers bloodied, horrified. You felt numb. You felt terrified. You felt alive.  
A hand grabbed yours as you came to a stop on the ground, gasping and heaving, and you'd flinched away, until you saw the girl that the frond actually belonged to. Her loose chestnut curls reached her waist, her olive green eyes wide and afraid, pale skin decorated in freckles. 

She was...Beautiful. She wore her slate grey skirt below her knees, green knitted socks covered the rest of the flesh on her legs, and a modest black shirt and a matching green tee clothed her top half. Others might've considered her prude, but you thought she was simply respectful, polite and considerate. She was treating school as it should've been treated; her education, not a one-way ticket to a boyfriend. You don't think you've been so instantly attached to someone since you held your brother to your chest for the first time. The girl offered out her hand again, and this time, you took it, nodding gratefully to her, and she'd smiled brightly in return. You stood taller than her by a considerable few inches, even when you were staggered, but still she offered you her arm. 

"We should get you to the nurse..." She'd offered gently, her accent was...Foreign...Norwegian or Swedish, maybe. You'd have to ask her. You'd nodded dumbly again, taking her arm as she led you away from the now shivering, crumpled body of Cronus Ampora. You started to notice little details about her as you walked at her side; the little cat earrings, some brightly coloured kandi bead bracelets on her wrists. On her other arm, she carried a small leather satchel with a bright anime design and the giant, almost ridiculously glittery bubble font that announced 'Puella Madoka Magica'. Spank your ass and call you Susan if you knew what the hell that was. Dangled from the strap of the bag were various little keychains, tiny string voodoo dolls and more cute animals (primarily cats). She was...Insanely adorable. 

"I'm Meulin"  
"Wh- hah?"  
"I'm Meulin, Meulin Leijon" she'd repeated with a small giggle and a kind smile, glancing up at you as you neared the back doors of the school, close to the nurse's office. You'd swallowed hard and tried to get your newly apparent limp under control as you replied to her,  
"I'm Kurloz Makara" and she'd giggled again.  
"I know who you are" she'd replied with a shocking seriousness to her joyful tone.  
Ok...A little creepy...  
"I sit at the back of four of your classes. Haven't you noticed?"  
Oh shit, you hadn't, not at that point.  
"I- uh...No...Sorry, I don't really...I'm not the most sociable creature"  
"It's alright! I'm in your history class, science, art...Oh, and geography! I always choose the seats in the corners by the windows, though, beclaws that's the purrfect place to sit so you can draw and no one notices! I ship you with SOO many people...But mostly me, we're my OTP!"

Ok...Cat puns? It kinda figured, come to think of it. They were the first of thousands of cat puns you would come to hear over the next 6 years of your life.

 

Meulin had taken you to the nurse, who had gasped when she saw you and quite literally lifted you onto the bed in her office and began bustling around for various medical supplies and all that. She was a woman of a size that the room was obviously not designed to accommodate, and her backside seemed to be proving a bit of a difficulty when it came to bending down and searching for a bottle of antiseptic. The sound of Meulin stifling her giggles was apparent alongside the clattering of the metal cabinets and drawers in the room, and you'd found yourself smiling, at least until the nurse forcibly applied a hefty chunk of fabric over your right eye, battering it further and making you wince. She thickly taped the padded gauze over your eye and you pulled a face, fighting the urge to lean back and withdraw from the medical attention. 

"What happened? Who did this to you?" The woman had questioned, fixing her scarlet hair back into it's neat doughnut bun before she retrieved her antiseptic and a cotton swab, and you had braced yourself.  
"I was in a fight. With Cronus Ampora"  
"Cronus Ampora?"  
"I don't like that Ampurra fellow. He's pushy and rude" Meulin had injected.  
"Yeah, he was bullying my best friend, Mituna Captor? And I got sick of him..."  
"Purrloz busted his nose!"  
"I busted his balls" 

Meulin had exploded into a fit of adorable laughter then, covering her mouth and leaning over like it was the funniest joke in the world, and the nurse had shaken her head, although she was smiling. The redhead had gently pressed the cotton to the cuts and grazes on your cheeks and arms, and you hissed at the pungent sting, comforted by Meulin's encouraging cachinnate. After the woman was done with you, she'd sent you to the office where Principle Brown had contacted your father, who arrived mere minutes later. He'd played at being angry with you while you were in the room, looking at you sternly and threatening punishments. The second you exited the school, he'd looked down at you with a smirk.

"What did you do to the Scottish bastard?"  
You weren't sure why your father felt the need to point out where it was that Cronus and his family came from, but you supposed it was just a filler word for lack of another insult.  
"Broke his nose..."  
"And?"  
"Split his lip..."  
"And?"  
"...And?"

Your father grinned,  
"You didn't just do that, you little shit"  
"...Kicked him in the balls...HARD"  
Your father had chuckled heartily, erupting into his huge roar of a laugh and shaking his head. He'd pulled you close to him by your shoulder and ruffled you hair, and you smiled at him. When you got to the car, Gamzee ran to greet you as always, but when he saw how bruised and cut up you were, his face fell and his eyes glistened.  
"What happened?" He whimpered, looking up at you, and you'd smirked at him.  
"Nothin' you gotta be all and worrying about, brother mine" you reassured him, and Gamzee had sniffed and opened his arms for you to hug him. You sat beside him in the car, his head on your lap and your arms around him.  
You'd always been too close to your brother. 

\---

At the age of 13, you'd developed enough of a crush on Meulin Leijon to finally motherfuckin' ask the bitch out. It was her birthday, July the 26th, and you'd given her a card and her gift (a plushy of some guy called 'Matsuoka Rin', he was her favourite character in her favourite anime, at the time). In her card were the simple words: 'I ship us' written in purple and green ink, and when she opened it and read the simple sentence, her jaw fell slack and her eyes welled up with fast overflowing tears. You were quite certain at that moment that you were going to marry that girl; everything about her was perfect, from her little cat ear knitted hats to her Mary Jane pumps with the tip-ex drawn cat faces. There was nobody on the planet more perfect.

Except him. 

She'd thrown herself at you and cried, wrapping her arms around your shoulders and soaking your hoodie with her tears, her smiling face becoming the light of your life. You did everything together, she came over after school every week and your father grew to treat her like a daughter, and she brought him a little cat-shaped icecream sandwich cookie literally every time she came to your place. Everything was good, you were happy and she was happy and Mituna wasn't getting bothered by Cronus anymore (he was pants-shittingly afraid of you by this point), your father liked Meulin and he got a promotion that year, pay was good and your kitchen got renovated (the amount of water you and Meulin wasted dropping ice cubes on the floor and kicking them under the fridge when you got too excited using the dispenser was too damn high and probably could've provided sustenance for a family of three in Africa for a week, but you couldn't care less at the time). You were all happy.

Except him. 

You didn't forget about Gamzee, no, you could never, but you'd certainly not been spending as much time with him as you usually would. It didn't occur to you until maybe five weeks into your relationship with Meulin, which was going well so far (some said it was too young to date, but fuck them; you loved her). You hadn't realised that he'd stopped crawling into bed with you, or that he didn't wait outside the bathroom anymore or ask you to draw with him. Gamzee sort of just became a background aspect of your life, and you would eventually be killed by the guilt. Heck, you hardly spoke to him in the car on the way home from school anymore. Meulin took his place, essentially. It was on one night though, bass-drop thunder rumbling and strobe lightning cracking in the midnight sky, illuminating the rain like crystals. Friday night, or maybe Saturday morning, the early hours. You heard a tiny sniff, and a tug on the back of your shirt. 

You'd turned groggily, wiping your eyes and swallowing, only to see...Gamzee?  
"Hey brother, you never do this no more..."  
"...Missed you" he whined, wiping his running nose with his sleeve and letting tears stick and go dry on his face. When you saw that he was crying, you sat up immediately, opening your arms for him, letting a small, pained expression flash across your face when he hesitated, like he was scared. After a few moments, the 12-year-old had crawled across the bed and hidden his face in your shirt, grasping the back of the fabric with his arms around your chest. 

You lay down with his body atop yours, head resting on your chest, hands on either one of your shoulders. His crying had seized, and he'd nuzzled his face into your thorax as you stroked his hair gently, your free hand rubbing circles between his shoulder blades.  
"You gonna rejoice and tell me what's got you all worked up, bro?" You'd whispered to him, all exclusive, like the words were his only. He'd shrugged in response, and you kissed his forehead, smoothing his hair, giving him time. Eventually, he mumbled, "Never get to be with you no more..." And it hit you hard and sudden, and your grip on him tightened. You felt terrible, guilty, inadequate, foolish...You felt sick. You kissed his forehead, his cheeks, his lips, fingers twined in his hair and your arm around his narrow shoulders. You shouldn't have kissed his lips.

"Didn't think you loved me no more, s-so I didn't-"  
"No, baby, don't go saying no motherfuckin' heresy like that...I ain' never gonna stop loving you, you hear?"  
"Thought you didn't want me all up and bothering you 'cause you got Meulin now and she's so nice and you're in love with her and-"  
"Brother mine, you'll never be a motherfuckin' bother to me, aight? No matter how long I got Meulin, you're still my baby bro, and ain' no bitch ever gonna change that. No matter how many girls I've loved, they ain' ever gonna change us"  
"Promise..?"  
"Cross my heart"  
"Hope to die?"  
"Pour battery acid in my eyes"  
You'd both laughed at the parody that you always used, and he nuzzled up close to you. 

Gamzee yawned, closing his eyes and holding your shoulders,  
"Love you, 'loz" he mumbled, and kissed your neck lightly, resting his head on your thorax.  
"I love you with the light of a thousand suns, brother..."

You shouldn't have shivered when he kissed your throat.


	3. I'm So Afraid Of The Gift You Give Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god guys I'm so fuckin sorry for the delay on this seriously but I'm going on holiday AND to comicon in the same week ugh I'm really busy and ah crap. In a few days I'll be on a plane from Britain to Spain though so I can shit out a chapter or two in that time for you guys while I choke down toxic plane food and listen to the clicking of my grandma's knitting needles for two and a half hours oh the joys
> 
> So Gamz and Kur get it on a little in this chapter lel plus Christmas and frosting innuendo and ya know all that cliché this-is-the-first-porno-I've-ever-written shit COUGH

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiring song lyrics for this chapter:
> 
> Your magic, white rabbit,  
> Your white room, straitjacket!
> 
> Your magic, white rabbit,  
> Has left its writing on the wall,  
> We follow, like Alice,  
> And just keep diving down the hole.  
> \- Egypt Central, White Rabbit.
> 
>  
> 
> Let's recap ages ok  
> Kur is 16 currently  
> Gamz is 15 so technically is it underage?  
> His b-day is in less than a week in this fic anyway  
> They don't do the sex like they're just idk kms  
> They're not getting their freak on so nah this doesn't need an underage  
> but w/e you fuckers don't care just shut up and have some porn jfc

You never really payed attention to how close Gamzee's birthday was to yours- and how close both of them were to christmas. It's a good job that your dad is pretty darn wealthy, or you wouldn't be getting shit this year. You know exactly what you'll be doing to celebrate you getting one year closer to your death, but Gamzee, you're not sure, currently. It's only the 23rd of December now, you guess, so you've got time to think. Usually, he just invites Karkat over for a while, and after your dad shoos the Vantas out, you order a take-out and he cuddles up with you on the sofa and you watch movies for hours upon hours. It's what he wants to do, it's inexpensive, it's enjoyable enough for all of you, and chances are that after 15 years of doing it, the simple fact that it's his 16th birthday won't stop him from doing it again. You have no problem with that. 

When he's older though, you want to actually take him outside for his birthday, for once. He's usually reluctant when it comes to the outside world, but you know about a nightclub in town, and frankly, you're gonna get him there if it kills you. He'd have fun and you know it, it's just a matter of getting him out of the front door. His voice calls you back to the matter at hand, though; christmas decorations. You don't get /that/ excited about christmas, but Gamzee loves it. It's pretty damn late to be putting up your christmas tree at this point, but your dad's been busy at work, doing overtime shifts and working from 7-11 and it would've been unfair to bug him about it. But oh joy, now that he's off work, Gamzee is making this stupid tree more of a priority than eating. Your father looks about as excited as a pig in an abattoir, and you're not being much more enthusiastic. 

"Kurloz, what good are you even motherfucking doing?" your father growls at you, trying to keep the tree upright as Gamzee forcibly shoves glass ornaments onto the branches, using as much glitter and shiny surface decorations as humanly possible. He's stood up on his toes as high as his joints will allow, and your father grumbles as Gamzee drops a little golden bell that hits him square in the face.  
"I'm surveying" you reply simply, leaning further back onto the sofa cushions and crossing your ankles, arms folded over your abdomen, and Gamzee giggles as your dad groans.  
"Get your skinny ass up and help your motherfucking brother, how about? Or decorate something else, just up and fucking do something!" he commands, and you roll your eyes, which makes Gamzee laugh again. Your dad doesn't exactly look amused, so you sigh and half sit, half roll off the sofa and stand up, and go to check out the tree. 

Your eyes widen slightly as you see just how...Decorated it is; he must've gotten at least two per every square inch, and you're about to tell him to take some off and go easy, until you see him looking up at you. He's like a child sometimes, all bright eyes and watching cartoons and crayons, carefree and dim of understanding. He's not stupid, not in any way whatsoever; he's intelligent and he always gets good grades, it's just that you're more intelligent than he is, so he looks to you for guidance...in most situations, even those within which he should know how to handle himself. It bothers your father, but you find it cute, like most things that he does. 

"How'd you think it looks, bro?" Gamzee asks hopefully, and you smile at him just because you never want him to be sad, and you nod.  
"Looks mighty motherfuckin' fine, brother. Just...Lay off right about now, OK?"  
"...You mean stop all up and-"  
"Shoving shit on it? Yeah" your father injects, and you scowl at him briefly before turning back to Gamzee.  
"Why don't you just put the star on top and leave it alone? I think it looks fuckin' perfect as it is" you console him, and his face lights up like a star when you mention said finishing touch, and he nods so hard you can practically /feel/ his neck crack. Gamzee rushes over to the several cardboard boxes in which the decorations are kept, rooting through the dozens upon dozens of delicate glass spheres and several metres of sickeningly shimmery tinsel. He retrieves the most important tree accessory of all, and scampers back over to you...  
And lifts his arms up like he did when he was a kid. 

"Bro, you know I can't up an-"  
"You /always/ used to put me on your shoulders so I could reach!" he argues, and you look at him sympathetically.  
"Yeah, when you were 100 pounds lighter and three feet shorter"  
Gamzee's face falls like it does when Karkat takes his Faygo away because he 'shouldn't be shoving that carbonated shit extract down his throat like it's his oxygen'. You chew on your lip for a moment, and sigh in defeat, crouching down on your knees, and he lets out a little victorious noise, running behind you and putting his hands on your head so that you're forced down, and you make a small growl in protest to the force of his shove. Your 15-year-old 5'9 feet high brother then proceeds to hook his legs over your shoulders, and with minimum strength required, you stand up to your full height and sigh at him. He's surprisingly...Light...Too light, in fact. Sure, he's only wearing that shirt with the purple symbol on it and his underwear, but still, he's too light. 

"You need to put on weight" you inform him, and he mumbles indifferently, too occupied with putting the star bang upright than he is with your concerns for his health. Your father is staring at you like you're both some kind of double-act at a freak circus, but neither of you really care. Gamzee lets go of the star slowly, observing it to make sure that it doesn't stray from the exact coordinates of its designated position. When he's satisfied, he leans forward to try and look down at you, which makes you panic more than you'd care to admit.  
"There! Motherfucking miracles! This tree has all its sweet magic all up and-"  
"Shut up and get down"

He doesn't even realise that you've been squatting down for the last probably 20 seconds while he's been marvelling at his tree, and as soon as he hears your voice, he makes a small 'oh' of recognition, and clambers off, stumbles, and falls on his ass. You laugh. Your father sighs, "motherfucking hopeless". 

\---

The next day, you go to see Meulin at her place, to take her presents over, mostly. You'd rather spend the day with Mituna building threatening snowmen in the back gardens of random people, but it's sort of a custom to go and acknowledge her existence, right? You're not sure what's wrong with you at the moment, but you're seriously losing the affection you once had for her at a rapid rate. It didn't bother you too much at first; it was like religion, she'd just become such a perfect, constant part of your life that you'd become...Used too loving her. Yeah. That was it. It was a satisfactory enough excuse for you, until thoughts of Gamzee started coming to your mind when you were kissing her. You're no love guru, but you're pretty sure that the thought of kissing your brother shouldn't seem more appealing than kissing your 5-years-and-going girlfriend. 

You sleep in bed with him every night, for Christ's sakes! You cuddle with him when you watch movies, you kiss his cheeks for no reason other than affection and your breath fucking hitches when he kisses your throat. You don't know why he does that, whether he just prefers it to kissing your face or the possibility that he's trying to rile you up. When he sits up to greet you in the morning and straddles your waist and hugs you, you shouldn't have to bite your lip to silence yourself when he shifts his hips on /purpose/. He takes your hand in public when you're walking, for no reason at all, and he always straddles one of your thighs when you sleep beside him and you swear you've felt him softly grinding down on you when he thinks you're asleep. You...Love each other. You don't want to accept it yet, though- you /can't/; but the idea of being in love with your brother arouses you just as much as it disgusts you. You wonder what it's like to kiss him...Like, /really/ kiss him...

You picture his little blushing face and his plump, bitten lips and imagine the way his eyes would flutter between closed and half-open, the little gasping pants he'd make when he was close...How he'd grip the sheets as you edged him on, how fluidly he'd rock his hips up to you and how his voice would sound moaning at you, begging you; "Kurloz, faster~ Plea-ahh!" And holy /fuck/ that's hot. And he'd have bruises and bitemarks on his collarbone and his chest, the face he'd make when he came and how he'd scream for you, and you'd have bruises on your hips from where he clung to you and why is it so much hotter than imaging your girlfriend this isn't fair-

You reach her door and sigh, biting down on your lip and think of something disturbing think of something disturbing-  
You picture your great grandma Iris naked.  
Yep. That worked. 

You knock four times, clear and loud, and immediately you hear noises from behind the door, the shouting of voices and the screaming of Meulin's little brother, Karkat. You then hear the louder screaming of their father, Samuel...Then the even louder screaming of their mother, Moira. Kankri's voice becomes apparent, chastising Karkat for foul language, and morphing into a loud yelp as Karkat punches him in the dick, probably. Moira roars. The house falls quiet.  
Then Meulin opens the door.

The two of you share all the average classic bids of cheer and Christmas wishes and such, you kiss and hug and you give her the several gifts that your family gave to hers, although most of them are from you to her and Gamzee to Karkat. You ask her how she's feeling and she replies that she's good, as always, and says that she's excited for Christmas and asks you what you plan on doing for your birthday. You reply that she knows you're not one for parties, but you might go to the old abandoned construction site with the gang and have cigarettes and drink cheap alcopops and set fire to stacks of Christmas break homework.  
She tells you that she'll try to tag along, but she's not smoking or drinking, which isn't a surprise; she's pure and clean, she doesn't see the need to poison her body for no reason. Nothing notable is said. You tell her that you should be getting home, to help Gamzee with the decorations, and she says that she's helping Karkat with baking cookies and such, so she thinks it's best to say goodbye, too. You kiss her softly, hold her to your chest a little longer, before Karkat is screaming for her, and she smiles and turns to watch you pace down the driveway, waving to you. You wave back and pull on your headphones immediately, turning your volume up as high as it will go and trying not to get too wrapped up in your thoughts. 

Your house is on a kind of rise type thing in the terrain, so you have to go up a few stairs to reach the porch and, evidently, the door. The stairs are basically there so you don't have to climb up a few rocks and risk Gamzee bashing his skull in or your dad getting shit in his shoes. Although Gamzee's run up too quickly and taken the abrupt corners too fast and nearly thrown himself over the wooden barrier on a number of occasions. Your porch transitions into a pool deck when you reach the top of the steps, where your pool and various other classic 'summer' objects reside: deck chairs, parasols, your dad's 'don of all barbecues', several dozen blow-up pool toys and chairs that mostly belong to Gamzee and Mituna. The pool is one of those weird oblong shaped things, it looks like two big circles with another small one stuck in the middle, kind of like Mikey Mouse's head would look if he had a dodgy ear. Why the hell are you contemplating all this? It's not even important!

You don't need to unlock the door since apparently nobody is going ANYWHERE today because your father doesn't want any of you to be seen by the woman who lives across the street. She's called Doris and she owns 13 cats and 6 dogs, and her husband, Craig, builds...Boats. Doris has hair like a red traffic light and these gigantic glasses on a pink beaded chain, and wears elaborate golden jewellery from Dubai. Doris likes to invite everyone within a 20 square mile radius for Christmas dinner at her place...And her cooking is foul. You've suffered the consequences of being spotted by her prior to the 25th of December on more occasions than your tongue cared for and your stomach could deal with. You're not spending another post-Christmas meal either shitting your organs out or hurling them back up, or both at the same time, if you decide to be a smartass like Gamzee and DRINK the gravy, because it was 'the best part of the meal'. 

You open the door quickly and practically sprint in, slamming it shut, finding Gamzee immediately pressed to your chest and nuzzling up to you, smiling up at you. "You were gone /ages/!" He drawls, and you cock an eyebrow, pulling your phone out of your hoodie's pocket, looking down at the screen, where Seether's Karma And Effect album is playing. Goddamn, 42 minutes in? How slow were you walking? Your mind was reeling like ribbons on a waterwheel, though, so you suppose you were caught up in the web of your thoughts and took a...Steady walk. That doesn't cover how long it took you to get there and how long you and Meulin talked for, either. You fumble to put your phone back in your pocket then, wrapping your arms around him and kissing his hair, apologising quietly until you hear him giggle, "we're making cookies!"  
"...We?"  
"Yeah! Dad said he'd help-"  
"-I was FORCED...AFTER you almost set the motherfuckin dishcloth on fire, skinny-ass fuckwit!" Your father injects from the kitchen, and you smirk at Gamzee, who looked hurt until he saw you grinning. 

You yank up the collar of your hoodie, discard your headphones and such on top of a random dresser by the door, and wrap an arm around Gamzee, encouraging him down the hall and to the kitchen, where your father stands with flour in his hair and icing in his eyes, a look of absolute death on his face.  
"Dad...I can- I'll do that-"  
"Too fuckin' right you will!" He announces, shoving you out of the way as he exits the kitchen, supposedly going to get a shower. You grin at Gamzee and pad over to the counter to observe the mess, cluttered bowls and wooden spoons are scattered amongst other usually unnecessary utensils. Flour and sugar and splotches of white icing cover the counter, and you find yourself chuckling as you gaze at your brother. "Jesus fuck, you clumsy bitch" you growl playfully, and Gamzee giggles alongside you, nuzzling his painted cheek into your shoulder as you wrap an arm around him again. 

You dip a finger into a randomly selected bowl, and the frond reemerges half-coated in pearly white icing of an...Erotic consistency. You grit your teeth together as your brows knit together and why the hell did your mind describe this as an 'erotic consistency' oh my god this is cliché and Jesus fuck his disciples in the ass you're disgusting. Gamzee watches you almost carefully as you let the frosting drip freely for a few seconds, before pressing two of the digits together just to make him watch the liquid string between them wetly. You bring your hand to your mouth then, sticking out your tongue to lap up the icing, that is until you feel his tongue doing the same thing, and it's all fine and dandy until your tongue touches his and you freeze like a highschooler who just got his first surprise boner. Gamzee is stood opposite you, eyes open and eyebrows upturned in the middle, hot, wet muscle wrapped around your fingers. You feel your cheeks flush to more of an embarrassing level than you find comfortable.

You move your half-cleaned fingers and he stares dumbly, as though realising that what he just did was so fucking wrong. He looks /terrified/, brows arched and flattened, mouth slightly opened and his cheeks pink. You shut your own orifice, lower your eyebrows and give him a death stare, just to see the utterly /hot/ fear I'm his face, before you cup one of his cheeks in your hand and press your lips to his. He makes a noise, and you move your mouth against his, licking at his bottom lip, and he reciprocates as best he can, letting his tongue dip into the hot cavern of your verbal orifice. He pulls away a little, looking at you, and you growl,  
"What? Don't act like that was all me"  
"N-no I just...Don't feel right since you got Meulin and all those miracles..."  
"I IMAGINE you when she kisses me. I imagine pounding you into my mattress, for fucks sakes. It's hardly motherfuckin' miracles when I jack off to my brother and not her, Gamz...I think it's come to transpire that we're clearly not what everyone thinks we are, hm?"  
He listens to you and his face flushes dark scarlet and he squirms and shifts his hips a little, and you bite your lip, tugging on the metal ring in the centre of the flesh. "Listen, if you don't wanna, we can forget this and-"  
"No! No, that ain' what I want, bro, I...don't wanna live like it's wrong doing this and all that, just don't wanna..."  
"Be the one who fucks me and Meulin up?"  
"...Don't wanna MAKE you do this"  
"How about we forget that she exists, hm?"

You suggest, letting your lips quirk up at the edges, glints in your eyes as you shut the door quietly, turning on your heel to walk back to him, losing all care for anything else in the world. You're riding a glass carousel, something so thrilling and beautiful yet so easily destroyed by any living soul else. The thought makes you shiver, and you let a flicker of dominance cross your expression, and Gamzee looks almost shamefully turned on by it. 

You don't know what you're doing...What the hell is going through your motherfuckin' mind? It wouldn't even be as bad if you were single- oh wait...Yeah it would; you're in love with your fucking BROTHER!  
You'd always been close, too close, unhealthily close bonds and too touchy-feely for it to be normal. It'd gotten to the point that you couldn't even rip one off to the thought of your girlfriend yet as soon as the thought of him moaning came to your mind you were off like a fucking rocket. It's not right, you're sick and fucked up in the head and oh god he's kissing you and /oh fuck/ that's nice.

He's almost 16, literally only just climbed up the ledge of legal age and he's clumsy and confused, literally an inexperienced virgin, which is endearing to no end. He leans up on his toes and wraps his lips around yours, mouth moving erratically and he's desperately unsure, you can tell just by the way he clings to the back of your hoodie as his arms snake under yours. Gamzee grasps your shoulders and holds tight to the fabric of your jacket like you're just going to step back and walk away, laugh at him for ever thinking you'd waste time on him. You kiss him back, the complete and utter /sin/ that you're committing is boiling your blood and that blood has taken a one-way ticket to your crotch. It's not that you don't care how wrong it is, it's that you can't stand how wrong it is and it's wrong to the point that it's the hottest thing you've ever had the pleasure of feeling. 

He's easily guided; after a few movements of your lips against his he's dropped into your rhythm and you're moving in harmony, but of course, he doesn't know that. He's still clung to you, and you crack open your left eye just the tiniest bit so that a beam of his image comes in, and oh god he's hot. He looks so desperate and horny and /concerned/, like he's still worried about you leaving, worried that he's doing it right. You guess it's your job to offer him some encouragement; if he's doing so well already, what the hell must he feel like when he's not been careful?

You move your arms under his, leaning forward to rest on your forearms, pressing them against the wall and forcing him back against the surface, and he stands pigeon-toed, not even breaking the contact of your lips to breathe. Gamzee's tongue explores the roof of your mouth and you groan quietly, and you feel him shudder; he trembles underneath you as you slip your knee between his thighs, provoking a quiet noise. You smirk through the contact of your mouthes, catching his bottom lip in your teeth and biting down just hard enough to bruise, licking the flesh afterward, and he gasps out and moves his hands to the front of your hoodie. Gamzee's fumbling for the zipper now, panicked once again as he pulls away slightly, drawing in breath and groping at your clothing. 

You suppress the urge to snigger at him as you bring your knee up to his crotch, and grind it against him hard, slow and teasing, and he /moans/, mouth already open and he grips your clothing as you move your leg away, playing with him. His face is flushed dark cardinal, eyes half-lidded and bitten, purple bruised lips parted. Gamzee tugs on your hoodie and whines, yanking down the zipper like it's his gateway to heaven, and straight away his hands are on your chest and your hips, he pushes the thin fabric of your Lorna Shore tee up and wraps his arms around your waist. You push your hips against his as you kiss him, his teeth clicking on the metal ring of your labret piercing, trying to mimic you and get your tongue between his teeth. 

Gamzee traces his hands down your spine and hooks his fingers over the studded leather strap of your belt, and your smirk falters slightly, you blink your eyes open to glance to your left: the door is shut, obviously, just like it was when you came in the goddamned kitchen. Meulin is behind that door. Far away, but behind that door all the same. What you're trying to say, you guess, is that she exists. Your girlfriend, the girl you have called yours for over 6 years is behind that sheet of wood, tongue pressed to her cheek while /your/ tongue is on the inside of your little brother's teeth. Gamzee's whimpers bring back your attention, and you smile at him, eyes lowered and your pelvis pinning his to the wall. He slides his hands into the back pockets of your jeans, trying to pull you closer to him or coax you into doing something to relieve his painfully obvious erection. You move a hand carefully to the front of his jeans, groping at the fabric and revelling in the gasp he makes, hips rocking forward to press his cock against your palm.

You roll your hips against his slowly, fluidly, give him something to grind against, and he trills quietly, hands pulling you closer to him as he moves with you. You move your arms from the wall and run them down either of his thighs then, and he jolts slightly, and you chuckle at him. He kisses you again, on the corners of your lips and everywhere else he can reach, until you grab the flesh just under his ass and he catches your drift, leaning against the wall and wrapping his legs around your hips as you lift him off the ground. He fists one of his hands in the back of your hair and you reward him with a near-silent half moan, returning your arms to the wall as you press yourself flush against him. You can feel his cock through his jeans and fuck if he can't feel yours cause your jeans are even tighter than his and that's saying something. 

You roll your hips against Gamzee's then, harder and more frequently, until it becomes a loop of you pushing down against him, and him rocking back up to meet you in return. He's gasping and whining, one hand clasped onto your shirt and the other twisted in your hair, letting out tiny breathy moans between his whimpering, and he gives your hair a light tug, more of an experiment than it is anything else. You hum in approval, turning your hands so your arms are hooked under his and your hands are over his shoulders, pulling him down against you with each movement of your hips, and further increasing the friction, mostly on his part. Gamzee's gasping out fragments of your name now, eyes pleading as he gazes up at you, and you let your lips curl upward as you survey his expression. 

"What's my name?" You command lowly, and he flushes dark and his thighs clench, trying to focus his attention to answer you.  
"K-Kur-ahhn!"  
"Come on, baby, you know this"  
"Ah~ Kurloz, haaa-"  
"Yeah, nghh- good boy"  
"Hnm~ /Kurloz!/"  
"Ah- Sounds nice when you say it like that, bro..."

Gamzee tries to nod but you kiss him instead, failing horribly at stifling a moan as he yanks your hair, getting bolder with his gestures. You kiss him slower then, if it's even possible with how hard you're grinding against each other, you kiss him with more passion, like there's more love going into it. He pulls away and warbles gibberish at you, probably trying to tell you that he's close, and if he keeps going with your name like that then you're gonna come in your pants like some inexperienced 14-year-old. He's panting your name, you encouraging him with praises and pet names, moaning in his ear and groaning out his name, and any second now, he's gotta come soon goddammit- 

Click!  
You freeze,

The door opens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also I'mma apologise again for the last chapter's poor quality guys I'm sorry  
> Also, MORE apologies for my shitty attempt at the 'canon-accurate' KurMeu breakup that's coming in the next chapter, it's just... We need to get Kurloz's disco stick into Gamzee's gay bar and frankly Meulin is in the way kill me I love her too much


	4. It Was Only Just A Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tiny little shitty draft of a chapter written between midnight and 2:22am  
> Because I'm just so kind that I didn't want to leave you guys on a cliffhanger so two updates in one and a half days holy shit
> 
>  
> 
> I'm so tired

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So stand in the rain  
> Stand your ground  
> Stand up when it's all crashing down  
> 

And there she is.  
"Hey Kurloz, I forgot to give you Gamzee's birthday presents when you came over so I just took a walk up here to-"  
You stop, step back slowly and Gamzee slowly slips down to the floor, cowering, and your eyes grow wide. No. This absolutely cannot be happening. You are not that unlucky, you have not sinned so, your Messiahs cannot class you as deserving of this level of punishment-  
But they can. They're right. You do deserve this, and every event following, whatever they may be, you poked the domino that triggered this whole string of events that you're about to suffer. 

Meulin drops the large paper bag of neatly wrapped, brightly coloured gifts, glitter and ribbons scattering the floor. The Norwegian girl stares at you with eyes like opals, mouth open the slightest bit, face pale. She's wearing a knitted olive green sweater with a little white cat decal, and a pair of snug white jeans and matching green leg warmers. Her Mary-Jane shoes poke out from under the knitted accessory, and she seems to want to hide under the beret that shields her eyes from the kitchen ceiling lights that might as well be deadly and capable of melting human flesh for all your life is worth at this moment. You're getting what you deserve. You know that. But it doesn't mean you're looking forward to it. Nobody says anything, no one moves and for a while it seems like none of you breathe, either. Until Meulin screams.

She's half scrambling like Lara Croft does in Tomb Raider 2013, hands pressing against counters and doors as her feet shuffle, like the room is closing in on her. You take a step toward her, arm outstretched, mouth failing to spit sense. She slaps your hand away and turns and runs out of the kitchen, taking off down the hallway and sobbing audibly. You race after her, barely keeping upright on the recently polished wooden floors, arm still reaching for her even though she clearly doesn't want any of it. "Meulin, hang on, babe-"  
"No, no, don't you call me that! Don't- don't talk to me! I- I have to go, I need to go, Nepeta needs me I can't stay here-" she's tripping on words and butchering sentences with sobs, and you grab her shoulders as she reaches the door. She thrashes and sobs like your hands are freshly smelted iron, but you don't let her go, and she eventually stops and tires herself, just crying and wiping tears from her face with her thin fingers. 

Gamzee steps out of the kitchen back down the hall, and you snarl; now is really not the time for him to show his face, realistically.  
"Meulin, it- it was my fault, wasn't Kurloz, please...don't go all and yelling at him for something he didn't-"  
"No, no I'm not angry with you, Gamzee. You didn't do this. He did this, you don't need to shield him with your body anymore, it's over. There's nothing to protect anymore so why fight?"

You stop still, stunned although you shouldn't be, and take a breath, swallow, and realise that she has basically shattered what you were to her. You don't- /can't/ blame her, this is your doing; if you loved her you wouldn't have done that.  
"Meulin, let me explain, OK-"  
"Explain?! Fucking EXPLAIN?! What the hell is there to explain, Purrl- Kurloz?! What is there to explain? You were kissing your-"  
You clamp a hand over her mouth, not able to risk your father hearing, and lightning claps in her eyes as fury crackles like static on her limbs. You've never seen her so angry, you're sure; she never curses in the slightest, let alone twice in one sentence. She grabs hold of your arm with both of hers, yanking hard and you wince. She stares at you then, face the true depiction of disbelief, a shattered heart, and eyes that say 'I trusted you'. 

"-Meulin, I- I don't..."  
"Love me? I can see that. I-I...I never wanted to say that I didn't love you, Kurloz, I never- I wished that I'd never have to, but I'm a stupid fool and I don't love you!"  
"It ain' you, darling, it's all me I swear, you didn't do anything, I-I'm sick and twisted alright? You're better without me, you've gotta-"  
"I haven't 'gotta' do anything you say. I don't have to-"  
"Nobody can know about this, alright? If you want me to LIVE, you cannot breathe a word of this, I'll do anything in return, just-"  
You're cut off.  
You can't quite believe-

She hits you. Hard. Smashes her fist right across your cheekbone and grits her teeth, curls tossed over her shoulders with the sheer force of the blow, hands shaking. Her eyebrows are flattened down and her eyes are on fire, colours crackling like a prisma ball, and you're still not over what just happened. A single drip of blood pools in the left cornered your parted lips, makes a scarlet trail as it trickles down your chin slowly, and you stand at your full height for the first time that day. She by no means squares up; you're towering over her, over Gamzee, and she seems to cower but think better of it, standing as tall as she can before you. You're over 6 feet of human and still she won't back down. She's titanium. You admire her. You envy her; you're motherfuckin TERRIFIED. 

It's shaken you, and now you're trembling and frightened and absolutely fucking /furious/. You grind your teeth together and growl deep in your thorax, fists clenching at your sides, filled with the fury that seems to be all the fear you've ever felt converted into pure, undiluted, acidic /rage/. Of all the people to lay a hand on you, you'd never think that Meulin would- then again, she never thought you'd cheat on her with your little brother, probably. What makes you angry, you think, is that she knows how to shake you to the core. She knows what scares you, what horrifies you, and what absolutely fucking petrifies you. And she leaped right in with her guns cocked and fired between your eyes and she's wrecked you in one movement. It makes you angry that she knew how, she knows every inch of you, even the things you buried as deep as you could possibly bury them, down inside your soul itself. She owns your soul. 

You're screaming.  
You're yelling and roaring and just announcing profanity and sprawled facts and messy memories and recalling every wrong thing she's ever done. There's not much, so you move onto her personality, her looks, then you feel your eyes welling up because she's so beautiful. /She/ is the one who looks terrified now. You keep screaming, you're preaching how you love her like a scripture, fighting tears back into your eyes. She's not; her face is drenched and her eyelashes are clumped together and she's got her hands clasped over her chest, until you just increase your vocal volume to the absolute limit and Gamzee has tears on his cheeks now and your father emerges from the living room-  
You don't even know what you're saying, you're just /screaming/ and Meulin just stands paralysed until she makes that last move that she knows to make, the thing that she knows will truly break you. The single movement that will...Shut. You. Up. 

She raises her fist, above her head and as high as she can get, and stares at you like Zeus catching his thunderbolts in the kingdom of the clouds, anger subsided with disappointment and pain, she looks calm and collected. Ashamed of you...Ashamed of herself. Like she's reached her last resort, she's using her last option...She looks like she's not afraid to bring down that fist as hard as she can and keep pounding you, and it scares you like nothing else on God's planet ever will. She doesn't look like she should, doesn't look like Meulin, like the girl you fell in love with and that you hurt and ruined. She looks like your mother. And that woman is the one that would make you cower no matter your height or strength. She is the woman that could cripple you and snap your spine with the strike of a cane. You're nothing but broken scaffolding and bent beams now, deformed pipes and ruptured structure. You're as broken as she is. 

It transmits, your brain realises, and your tongue seizes up in your mouth, you cower and you stoop down, you flinch hard as her fist swipes through the air and takes its place above her head. Your rage dies and terror bubbles up in its place, like hot glass and fresh flames. It's astounding. It frightens you and amazes you all at the same time, how a girl so small and sweet can bring you to your knees with one gesture.  
"Jeg elsker deg ikke lenger. Jeg hater deg." She spits bitterly in Norwegian, uses her native tongue. She lowers her arm quickly and you flinch harder than you'd care to admit, but her hand just falls to her side, and she looks weak and frail once again. The Leijon sniffs, eyes glistening with fresh tears and she shakes her head, bowing to your father before turning to leave. She does so silently, closing the door softly and exiting without another sound or trace, and that's when you start to shake. 

You're trembling and shuddering and suddenly the tears in your eyes are overflowing and travelling in pools and waterfalls and making rivers down your face. You're upset and ashamed and above all you're terrified and panicking, you want to shrink into yourself and fall into comatose and die slowly and gradually, losing pieces of yourself until you're not you anymore, you're just a brain. Which is all you were all along, really.  
"Son?" Your father asks gently, and for some reason, that sets you off.  
You turn and run to him and press yourself against him and /cry/. You cry harder than you've ever cried before with the combined sadness and misery and fear of every negative event in your life. Your arms wrap around his huge form like instinct and you cling to the back of his shirt, hiding your face in his chest and sobbing so hard you choke. For a moment you're even more petrified that he won't hold you back, that he doesn't love you either, and it's irrational but right now it feels possible. 

His large arms close around you and hide you within him, guard you from the world and he's shushing you gently like he did when you were a child and you woke up screaming from nightmares just like the one you witnessed not even 5 minutes ago. You cling to him and cry and he lets you, one hand rubbing your back in an attempt to soothe you, try and stop your shoulders from shaking so violently. His other hand holds your head against his thorax, fingers stroking your hair with a subtlety that a man of his size and girth should not be able to withhold. You whine as he whispers to you, comforting words that would normally silence your weeping;  
"You're alright, shh...You're fine now, nobody's gonna hurt you...You're alright, baby, you're fine" his voice is quiet and soft, and you swallow and realise that your throat is burning like an Australian forest fire. Your whole mouth is ablaze, red hot and overworked, and you sob feebly as your father kisses your head, prompting you to nuzzle up to him. 

Your name is Kurloz Makara, but that doesn't matter.

Because you have lost everything.


	5. Electric Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felt like writing from Meu's POV this time.  
> Warming y'all up  
> Ooh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm offering no explanation from my absence. Thank-you to all who contacted me, because frankly I was close to giving up on this. Another chapter will ensue in the next two days. That's a promise. 
> 
> Thank-you to all of you, especially HonkingHonkFriend, for listening as usual, everyone who commented, especially Lala_May, and HEY for their gorgeous fanart!!  
> <3
> 
> \--  
> Listened to literally every track of Melanie Martinez's Crybaby album writing this.
> 
> 'I feel it coming out my throat  
> Guess I better wash my mouth out with soap  
> God, I wish I never spoke  
> Now I gotta wash my mouth out with soap'

You have to force yourself to actually get up the next day; it's Christmas, but you just can't collect your thoughts enough to actually stand and make it downstairs without vomiting. You do it for Gamzee though, because he'll feel like yesterday was his fault if you don't, and it isn't his fault, not at all. You're angry and sickened at yourself, you've realised how disgusting you are and the trouble that Meulin could get you in for this...But somehow, you really don't think she will. You don't know how you know, but she won't. She doesn't want you prosecuted, she doesn't want your family in ruins; she doesn't want your life to be screwed up. If anything, she'll just want to stay away from you. You'll do that for her, that's the least you can do after all, after everything you've done to her and made her see. But now you've got to apologise to Gamzee. 

Christmas passes painfully slowly, the opening of presents is tedious and not at all magical. You spent the previous night with your father, wracked with nightmares and screaming and tears and half panic attacks; after the first three times you woke up you were too tired to yell and thrash and too breathless to hyperventilate or cry, too weak to even move far. Your father was thankfully not as tired of it as you were though, he was patient and you realised then how much he must love you. He loves you and you're a sick fuck. He loves you and you don't deserve it. You would cry as you think that but you've not even got enough will or tears left to sob. Gamzee just makes little whimpers occasionally, you know that this would be the time he'd ask you to play with his presents with him or watch movies, regardless of his age. He tried to act normal and excited when opening said gifts, but he couldn't muster it, like the rest of you. 

He's sat on the sofa now, looking pitiful and sad, and you slowly stand and walk over to the large plasma TV, turning it on and grabbing the remote for the DVD player. Turning to the narrow, tall shelf beside you, you pluck out a well known, faded case, retrieving the disk from inside. Time isn't wasted putting it in the player, turning the TV from the HDMI setting to the scart, and taking your place beside him. Gamzee shrinks into himself, guilty, but you just look at him until he's forced to check if you're staring, which you are. You open your arms then, and he looks genuinely shocked, and the sadness in his eyes worries you. 

"Come here" you instruct, firm but ever so gentle; you're not convincing, you're telling, but you're not intimidating either. The younger crawls over hastily, pushing his face in your chest and nuzzling your thorax, arms around you and holding whatever he can grab. His face is wet already, like you've given him permission to weep, and you embrace him and stroke his hair. "S'alright, I don't blame you"  
"-m sorry" his words are choppy and butchered by crying, and you shake your head and shush him.  
"No baby...You didn't do shit. You only followed me" 

He sniffs hard and sits on you. Literally sits on you, and you move one hand to push his chin up gently and make him face you, looking into his glistening violet eyes, lashes wet. He leans like he wants to kiss you, but retracts a little like he's scared to do so. You don't like that. Glancing around to see if anyone's watching (they aren't), you nudge him forward by the shoulders and press your lips together softly, and he leans into you. Gamzee pulls away a little, only leaving inches between you, then he kisses you again and you move your lips subtly, not getting your tongue involved. If he wanted to, you would, but he doesn't seem too bothered. In the background, This Is Halloween starts playing, and you feel Gamzee's lips curl into a smile.

He flops to the side then, pulling you with him and giggling, and you pull him to your chest after he rolls over, so you're both looking at the screen. He's wearing this ICP shirt that Karkat bought him for Christmas, he only opened it an hour ago and it was straight on. Besides that, he's just in his underwear and this ridiculous pair of purple striped toe socks that dad gifted to him. "Here" your father had said earlier, "if you're gonna be fucked in the head, you gotta get it right. Go big or go home". Gamzee was giggling the whole time he wriggled each toe into them, waggling his feet and bursting into hysterics, briefly forgetting his misery. You'd gotten him expensive headphones and various albums from bands he liked, also posters for his room and these purple sneakers that he'd been gawking at for months. Got him a taper too, since he's currently adamant on the idea of stretching his ear like you have (you began when you were 14, so it's no surprise he's been wanting to copy you for ages). 

You're pretty much wearing the same thing, minus the toe socks; you wore the Lorna Shore shirt cause it still smells like him, hot and aroused him. He pushes your legs apart with his foot as he tries to get comfortable, shuffling and turning onto his back, head still turned to the TV. He rests his head on your arm with your elbow bent under his neck, fits his shoulder against your chest and literally shoves his thigh between your own as he shelves his ass on your left hip. You're forced to bend yourself around him, sighing as he smiles in content, watching Jack go through the Christmas Door, and you lay your arm across his stomach. Gamzee hums and you smirk,  
"Comfy?"  
"Mmhm" 

You lay and think about what lead up to this, all the things that you'd both done that somehow resulted in this horrible, illegal, gorgeous thing. Of course since you were young, you held hands all the time and slept in bed together, but that was ok for 5 and 6 year olds. You'd not seen each other for so long, Gamzee had almost no idea that you were going to be in his life, your father never spoke of you or explained why he didn't come back straight away like he promised. You kissed him if he cried, or if he asked even (he did. Frequently) and you'd carry him around and he never wanted anyone else around him like that, no one so close as you could get. Then when you got to the ages of 10 and 11 and realised that usually brothers don't sleep together or still kiss, if they even did at all as young children. 

You two didn't know when to quit, though. It was all harmless and merely odd until the time just after his 15th birthday, when you were both being lazy fatass idiots in bed with him laid on your chest with his hips on yours. Gamzee was always affectionate, he had this thing for nuzzling, and he was rubbing his cheeks and his nose against your neck, which wouldn't have been a problem had you not have been a horny 16 year old (you still are). He'd brushed his lips against your throat, and you'd tensed up with your hands on his hips, lowering your eyes at him and he'd cowered slightly, sorry look in his eyes.  
"Gamzee, quit" you'd warned, and he made out as though he had no idea what he was doing. The worst part is, he knew exactly.  
"Quit what..?"  
"Don't play retard. Quit it"  
"This?"

He kissed your throat then, and you'd drawn in breath through clenched teeth, trying poorly to growl at him.  
"Gamzee, I sai-"  
He'd ignored you, mouthing at your flesh and pecking away at random places up the column of your neck, and you'd just pushed his hips back half-heartedly, until you felt his lips on your jawline just under your ear. His lips brushed gingerly at first, then he found his courage and sucked slightly and your face had flushed, you bit your lip with your brows lowered, glancing at him through narrowed eyes. He noticed your reaction and sort of French kissed at the same spot, and you'd shivered against him with your breath hitching. He'd bitten down gently and lapped at the mark afterward, and your spine arched up and you pressed you hips against him, gasping a moan as your hips rubbed together. Gamzee had whimpered and squirmed to push against you again, blushing fierce, and you nudged him back by his shoulders, sitting up.  
"You can't- don't do that"  
"M'sorry...Thought you liked it"  
"It's, it's because I like it that you can't do it"

Your brother had proceeded to fumble with his shirt until you'd pulled him back down beside you and instructed that he go to sleep. He'd snuggled up to you and done as he was told as usual, shutting his eyes obediently and soon dropping off. You never really knew why you couldn't stop him from doing whatever he wanted to you; whatever you told him to do otherwise, he'd listen immediately and cease. He'd copy you and walk how you commanded and behave how you described, not a word of protest or an objection-related opinion. It was easy for you to tell him to do such things, but when he did things like he just did, there was something inside you that wouldn't let you push him off. Neither you nor your father had any problems with taking candy from him or rectifying his actions with harsh tones, yet you couldn't stop him from kissing you.

And him doing that was far far worse than any amount of calories he could consume in a candy shop. This was sweeter than any sugar and this could kill you both, but your family had always been infamous for living their lives with the edges of blades at your throats. Your mother tangled with all things sin, your father had been in the mafia and was now the CEO of a hugely wealthy company, and no one ever dared ask how he climbed so high so quickly, for fear that they'd meet the same fate as every fucker else that got in his way.

Your father's parents were of German origins, both of military employment and history, but worked away a lot so your father decided to train himself in the art of combat on the streets. By the age of 13, he could easily kill a man, and it wouldn't be long before his employment primarily consisted of carrying out such deeds. He had a sister, but christ knew where she was. All you were ever allowed to know was that her name was Mediah, and she was younger than him, and so, so tiny; short and lithe with hands that could breach arcade machines and steal sweets from under the noses of shopkeepers. Mediah did not look like your family traditionally did, she did not possess the signature traits besides wild raven hair and thin limbs. Gamzee looked a lot like her apparently, only much taller and less graceful, but their faces were near carbon copies; sharp contours, wide eyes unlike the rest of your family, upturned noses and softly curving high cheekbones, while the rest of you knew no meaning to the term 'curve'; you were all straight cut lines.

Gamzee, though, he was gentle; didn't have the same hollow eyes and naturally narrowed optics, sharp chins and almost shrunken cheeks, then only things he had in common with you were the colour palette and narrow sloping shoulders and predominant bones, as though your flesh were too thin. His face was rounder and childlike, his hair straighter (although still unruly and wavy), plumper lips and brighter eyes that looked full of life. He was the kind that people with sick, dirty intentions would chase after in the night, while you and your father, his parents, your own mother even...Those people ran from you. You were capable of striking fear with your condescending expressions alone, predators had begun running without having to be informed that your father could crush a skull with his two hands and snap a spine with his bent knee, like a proposal to The Reaper.

\---  
12  
Your name is Meulin Leijon and you could never harm a soul. You don't know why you raised your arm to him, and as you'd stumbled back through the streets, you were disoriented and sobbing still. You'd hugged your own chest and dropped your hat multiple times, cursing at it as though it were human. You felt cruel after that, and ended up apologising to the inanimate thing, pressing it to your nose and claiming that it had kept your head warm even in the whipping winds and thick snows of Norway. That hat had served you for well over 10 years in the cold of your hometown, it didn't need your abuse. Somehow you'd made it home, face clear of tears for your family's sake, padding into the house and banging your shoes against the doorframe out of habit, although there was no snow in Florida. 

You were greeted by the wonderful scent of stewing meat and herbs, and the glorious aroma of baking bread. Your mother was preparing pre-Christmas dinner snack foods, apparently, as she did every year on Christmas Eve. She and Nepeta loved syltelabb, so did you and your father and Karkat, although Kankri refused to eat it as he was a vegan. You were definitely not vegan. No one else in your family was, either; your mother loved steak too much, and Nepeta could scarce survive without meat. Nepeta hunted when you went back to Levanger, in fact, using only knives and her bare hands, although you don't know how she can do it, you admire her; you really could not harm an animal yourself. You approached the kitchen after removing your shoes and hat, to find your sister and mother cooking together...Or more accurately, your mother literally spooning salt into a large pot on the hob, and Nepeta sitting on the counter and getting herself sufficiently coated in mustard and red beetroot purée. 

The 5-year-old had begun to streak the thick cardinal sauce through her hair, and she had a good amount of mustard up her left nostril, your mother oblivious and too busy with the salt and boiled water for the syltelabb.  
"Ah, Meulin! You're home!"  
"Yes mother, I'm sorry I took so long...There was a disagreement"  
She stops her frantic stirring to look at you, concern on her pale freckled face.  
"A disagreement? Between who?"  
"Kurloz and I. We are no longer, should I say, together"  
"Oh, darling, I...I'm..." 

Your mother had set down her spoon and embraced you, and you'd snuggled closer to her and nuzzled her thick curls.  
"Why on earth..?"  
"He doesn't like women"  
You'd spat out the excuse before you could even think, and it turns out that it was not exactly a lie, after all. Your mother freezes, and from the living room, you heard your father snort and suddenly boom into laughter. Your mother screamed at him,  
"Samuel!! Do not laugh, fool!"  
"The stupid prick is bent!"  
"Do not use that term! 'Bent', you're ridiculous! So what if he's gay! We all know that's how Kankri is!"

The accused snorted and choked on his tea, leaping from his seat in the lounge and poking his head into the kitchen.  
"Excuse me? Such assumptions are not to be-"  
"Would you call Kankri 'bent'? You make it sound like a mental issue!"  
"Alright, alright, Moira. I'm sorry, ok? Have it your way" he says, and sips from a small glass of scotch, his first of the evening given the hour.  
"Fine: the stupid prick is gay" Your father annunciates clearly, and you found yourself smiling a little. 

"Oh, that reminds me! Grandma Rosa is coming home for Christmas!"  
"All the way from Berlin? It...It'll take her 12 hours to get to the airport and fly here and get to the house!"  
"She never gives up! Good old Dolores..."  
Dolores 'Rosa' Suffermann was your grandmother, or more specifically your father's only living parent, a kind woman with two daughters and her son whom she raised in Italy. Their father was from Germany and went by the name of Ludwig Suffermann, he was in the military, just like Kurloz's grandfather was. He and Malcolm Makara were brothers in arms, in fact, both German born men forced to leave their sons behind, except the fact that Malcolm had brought his wife to war him; Zeraphina was not to be turned down in the military simply because of gender; only a fool would do that when they saw how valuable an asset she was. Zeph and Col were never without each other, and spoke often of Grant and Mediah, their children. That was how you'd come to know of Kurloz existing, actually: asking your grandfather about his time in the army, then one day your father had made an uninterested comment about Grant Makara living in the area, and his sons went to your school. "They just keep breeding, the little beasts" your father spat bitterly.

Porrim and Kanaya were your father's older sisters, just as kind and beautiful as your grandmother always was. Porrim was in Japan, currently modelling with her girlfriend, Damara. In Britain, Kanaya resided with Rose where they owned a small boutique and sold their handmade clothing. Rosa had met Ludwig on the Italian boarder, where he'd seen her on a street nearby the airport, selling ribbons and handkerchiefs. He'd stomped over and demanded to know where he could find a decent cup of coffee. She'd said simply, "speak to me nicely and I shall brew you one back at my house", stunned, Ludwig had no option but to accept, in awe of her bravery. After that, they went back home and began to grow on each other almost instantly. Upon finding that he had nowhere to go after being thrown from the military, she welcomed him into her house and he proposed 7 years later. Thus, your father and your aunts, bringing the birth of you and your brothers and sister. There was no interesting tale as to how your mother and father met...It had just happened when Ludwig had decided that Samuel needed to move house and Rosa had chosen a Nordic state in which to place her son.  
...  
That had lead to the event of your father moving next door to your mother and proceeding to spill a huge bowl of chilli on her front porch. He was 20 years old and had the maturity of a 15 year old, but Moira was instantly attached. 

\---

"Oh my god, Nepeta!" Your mother exclaimed, grasping your little sister by the armpits and waving her around precariously. You'd taken the girl in your arms and offered to bathe her, which made Nepeta cry; she hated baths, but you promised to do her hair like Elsa's, so she quickly shut up and agreed with enthusiasm. You carried the girl upstairs, getting sufficiently covered in burgundy and yellow, thick clumps of golden mustard coating the ends of your hair.  
"My goodness, Nepeta...You have mustard in your ears...And your nose...For crying out loud" you were smiling as you said it though, entering the large bathroom and locking the door. 

You filled the bath with a copious amount of bubbles and stripped your sister down, taking her by the hands and dropping her into the water gently yet insistently; you were not dealing with protest.  
"Meulin?"  
"Hm?"  
"You bath too?"  
You considered your hair and face, and your hands, and rolled your eyes.  
"I suppose I must, yes" 

You tossed your clothes into the laundry basket and climbed into the tub opposite Nepeta, and she'd smiled and began to smother her face in foam, making a beard and laughing infectiously. You sing a verse from a song called 'Soap' by one of your favourite artists, of whom Nepeta has come to love from the songs you deem appropriate for her to listen to.  
"Think I got myself in trouble" you began, and she giggled before chiming in return,  
"So I fill the bath with bubbles"  
"Turn around, kattunge" you instructed softly, using her nickname. Nepeta turned less than gracefully, sloshing a good amount of water all over the tiled floor. You combed through her cropped hair gently with your fingers, smoothing shampoo through it and hoping that she didn't grow bored. 

"Sing that other song"  
"Which one?"  
"The one by the doll girl...The one with the swearing"  
"Why must you always pick the one that I shouldn't sing around you?"  
"I like that one, you sing that one really good" 

You sit, wash and comb her hair, and weep silently as you sing 'Crybaby' by Melanie Martinez.


	6. Rocard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basically terribly written porn that happened between the hours of two and three am on a Friday night in rainy Britain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm kinda sick right now guys so I'm sorry and stuff  
> My motivation for this fic is gone but  
> AdorabloodthirstyKitty wrote me a gift fic and it was literally how I always planned to end this so  
> This is probably the second to last chapter
> 
> I'm so sorry I know this isn't hot in the slightest

Your name is Kurloz Makara and today is your little bro's 16th birthday.  
Having a birthday on the 26th of December means getting all your presents on the previous day for Gamzee, cause Christmas. Today, though, you're giving him something that no money could buy, something that'll guarantee smiles all'round. He started as soon as he woke up that morning, asking for it and failing at being subtle, if that's what he was even going for. He knows what he can get away with now, and you shouldn't have let him get that far, cause now he's prancing around like little Mr.Whiskey-Dick. Pushing his ass back against your hips at 10am wasn't a smart decision, not when you'd been awake for less than 5 minutes, choosing to wear the shirt you wore yesterday, practically dancing as he walked. You thought he was intelligent when really he's a dumb bitch; he actually thinks that you'll full-on fuck him just because it's legal now (technically it's not even legal. It's far from). The fact that he thinks you're so easily tempted is insulting. 

He's up before you, sliding out of bed and stretching like he has any muscles to flex, and you roll your eyes at him as you sit up and he yanks on your Lorna Shore shirt. He's pulled on a pair of dark grey skinny jeans by the time you stand, shirtless and just in your boxers, and you approach him from behind. You lean close to his ear and put your hands on his hips, looping your fingers through the belt loops of his jeans.  
"Hey, slut" you whisper, and he tenses and smiles at you, looking over his shoulder and leaning up to kiss your lips. You indulge him and he grins, pulling away with a gasp as you grab his ass in both hands and grope him, squishing the flesh to your heart's content. He squirms in his place as you continue, wriggling like he wasn't asking for this or like he isn't enjoying it (you know for a fact he is), and you taste acid and excitement on your tongue as you tease him.

"Asking for it today, aren't we?" And he whines as your fingers dance across the zipper of his jeans, and you paw subtly at the cusp of his apparel, pulling away as soon as he responds. He wants to mess with you, huh? He doesn't seem to realise who calls the shots in this relationship, does he? You find it endearing, arousing; you feel empowered. "Cute how you think you can provoke /me/ when you're on your motherfuckin' knees when I touch you" you mumble darkly into his ear, exclusive and wrong. He opens his mouth as if he's going to contradict, but thinks the better of it when he realises that you're clearly correct.

You push him away from you gently after kissing his jaw, stepping back and stalking over to your wardrobe, pulling out your signature hoodie and the tightest pair of black jeans you own. Oh, and socks. Because everyone forgets those. You can't exactly apply the socks in a sexy formation, but the way you shimmy the jeans up and slip the hoodie over your shoulders should have his dick properly erect. Your dad is at work, considering he gets literally a week off for Christmas. He left you a note, apparently, as you discover after padding down the stairs and into the kitchen to get breakfast.  
'Gone to work. Will be back before 1am. Promise. Gamzee's birthday dinner is in the oven. Love you both, stay safe <3 :o) xxx'

Immediately, you turn to the oven and pull open the door, beaming smile on your face until-  
Grimy bowl of fry-up.  
Of fuckin course. It's just been Christmas, what the hell did you expect? On the counter, next to the note, there's a huge Faygo cupcake though, so he'll be perfectly happy. Gamzee rapidly stomps down the stairs, following suite, and smirk when you turn to face him, gesturing to the cake. "Cake" you inform him simply, as though it's not obvious, and his eyes glimmer as he walks up to you, socked feet suddenly silent on the freshly polished tiles. Gamzee sniffs the cake, mumbles things about miracles and motherfucking magic and stardust, to which you just roll your eyes and watch him. He looks toward you then, smile on his face and light in his eyes, he looks happy, and you love that but...What you'd love more is to see his cheeks flushed with your cum on his face and his little panting breaths on your cock.

"You hungry?" You ask, and Gamzee considers briefly before proceeding to shake his head, and you signal for him to follow you as you exit the kitchen. He does so, on your heels like a lost puppy, and you skip back up the stairs and into your room, ushering him through the door and closing it behind the both of you. You half dance around the room, planting your ass on the edge of the bed and pointing to the space on the floor in front of you, and Gamzee looks confused.  
"What you all and sayin', brother?"  
"On your fuckin' knees. It's not complicated"  
"Aight, I just ain't catching your wicked motherfucking drift here bro-"  
"Kneel, motherfucker" you order, louder and firmer, and you see his cheeks flush. You know he loves it when you command him, when you're dominant and firm, and you love the little noises he makes when you push him down. 

Your brother drops to his knees before you, and you open your legs so you can get him exactly where you want him, tapping his shoulders to position him correctly. You look down at him then, sat on his heels with his legs bent at the knee in a 'W'. You take his hands in yours and put them on your hips, pulling him forward so he's forced to lift his ass a little, and he must be stupid because he still looks confused. You'll just have to help him out a bit. His eyes glint like jewels when you click open your belt buckle, and his mouth opens slightly at the sound of leather against metal. He looks up at you with slight disbelief in his optics, like you're so cruel and depriving to him, like he hurts himself in restraint. His hands stay clinging to the curve of your hips as he awaits your next move, and you slowly peel your jeans down your thighs, leaving the fabric clustered at your knees. 

"Well?" You ask as he stares at your crotch like he expects your dick to just spring up and greet him in several different languages. He swallows and hooks his thumbs over the waistband of your underwear, sliding the striped fabric down your legs to join the bunch of tight denim at your knees. "Gonna put that sweet little mouth of yours to good use?" you speak to him with your tone dark and dirty, secret and exclusive, and he nods, opening his mouth, you can tell his trying not to act too eager. He's probably discouraged; you're not exactly sporting a raging hard-on, but you will be as soon as he actually starts- oh, right. 

Gamzee wraps his lips around the head of your cock and his cheeks flush cherry, and when he uses his tongue to cover the bottom set of his teeth and his upper lip for the other half, you're not really convinced that this is his first time sucking dick.  
"Hey, you've never blown anyone before, right?"  
He looks shocked that you'd even consider asking anything like that, and shakes his head as much as he can with five inches of your length down his throat, and you raise an eyebrow at him, cursing at yourself for being so blind to the obvious alternative.  
"Porn?"

He considers, weighs his options and realises that there's no point lying to you, and nods slightly. You smirk and look down at him, eyes lidded and brows lowered, and you draw in breath sharply as he hollows his cheeks around you and pulls back, only to dip his head down again and moan around your cock, and you shift your hips slightly. You bite your lip and weave your fingers through his thick hair, grabbing a handful and easing him forward slightly, guiding him gently. He knows what he's doing, you'll give him that. You just want to know how much he can get down his neck before he chokes. You soon realise that Gamzee lacks a functioning gag reflex; after having your cock forced down his throat with no protest other than quiet whines. You rock your hips forward and buck into his mouth, and his eyes well up as he grinds his hips down into nothing.

You reward him and moan a little, and don't really consider the fact that he's a virgin as you fuck his face, ignoring his desperate squirming and whimpering as he does as you've instructed. You push his shoulders back and force him to sit still and watch as you jack off for a mere few seconds before you cum on his face, making sure his mouth is open. He licks the liquid from around his mouth and wipes some of it away with his fingers, lapping at them afterward as though to make it perfectly clear to you that he's swallowing at least some of it. You've learned by this point that Gamzee is extremely easily aroused, and getting him riled up takes seconds, which is probably why he's tugging at your shirt and whining. You've never made him cum before, and you think that now is an appropriate time.

"Mmh-" he makes a small noise and rocks his hips, waiting for you to guide him and give him permission, and you replace your underwear and jeans back over your hips and fasten your belt, just to see his face.  
"With how you were askin' for it, I should motherfuckin' leave you"  
Gamzee looks almost upset, and you know he can't think of anything to say as he reaches up to you and makes grabby hands like a toddler, being childish as usual. It's not an annoying kind of childish, though; it's cute, innocent. You raise an eyebrow and lug him up off the floor, encouraging him to sit in your lap, but you rearrange him so he's straddling your thigh.

You tug down the zipper of his jeans and snake a hand around to feel at his ass, groping the flesh and eyeing the dripping head of his cock. Pulling your hands away, you lean to reach into the bottom drawer of your bedside table, fishing around through the purposely placed collection of pointless shit. You fish out a small container, a pad-like remote, and a bullet shaped device, holding them up to his face so he can get an eyeful of what you're about to ram up his ass. Gamzee doesn't look like he cares whether you're putting a vibrator or a shoe inside him right now, so you squirt some of the gel from the container onto your fingers. You return your hand to his ass, thickly costing his entrance and listening to him gasp and grab your shoulders as he realises the extent of this situation.

You slip a single finger inside him and his back arches, mouth open and his lips moist from the wet moans he's making. You add another finger and scissor the digits apart, and Gamzee cries out and grabs at your shirt, lifting his ass up. With the aid of your other hand, you slowly insert the silicone object into his entrance, he doesn't protest in the slightest; just leans against you and whimpers against your skin. His neglected length is still begging for attention and he rubs against your thigh like a cheap whore, proving that enough is never enough. You pull your hands away and wipe the fluids from your fingers on your bedsheets without a single fuck to give, and take the remote in one hand and prop up his hips with the other. There are only three settings on the toy and you realise that you'll have to be careful if you're planning to tease him with it in public.

You give Gamzee no other warning besides a soft kiss to his jaw when you nudge up the dial to the first level, bouncing your thigh up slightly so the toy hilts inside him, and he moans loud. You grin and zip up his jeans, pushing him back by the hips and forcing him to stand, and he looks at you with cute, upset frustration in his eyes. "You can't- I have to-"  
"Cum, I know, baby" you tease, kissing him and using the nickname you know he loves.  
"Bro, please~" Gamzee begs for you and nuzzles up to your chest, hands groping at the fabric of your shirt, and you wonder if you're being too cruel. If you were, he'd tell you, you know he would. You need to make sure though:

"Do you want me to stop?" You whisper, hand on his shoulder, and he shakes his head rapidly as he presses against you. Good. He's not in pain, then, and that relieves you because as of yet you're still not sure of his limits, you don't know how much he can take before it's too much. You decide to satisfy him before you tell him about your plans for the day, and you cup the bulge in his pants.  
"Then cum. I'm not stopping you"  
It's like flipping a switch, and you rub him harshly as he seizes up in your arms and releases. Gamzee moans your name and hides his face in your shoulder, hands clinging to you as he goes weak and uses you for support to lean against. His underwear has to be a hot sticky mess right now. You hope he doesn't mind.

"C'mon, we're going out"  
"Mhmm?" Gamzee makes the cutest little confused noise, trying not to go limp against you, and you kiss his lips softly.  
"It's your birthday. We're gonna motherfuckin celebrate"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you guys, thank you for reading

**Author's Note:**

> As always:  
> If you wish to ask questions, send fic requests/asks, you can do so via my email: ssinfulghost@gmail.com  
> iFunny: I'm under: vitreus  
> WCRPG/FeralFront: http://feralfront.com/index.php?action=profile  
> KIK Messenger: Radioactive_Synth  
> Or Skype: let-the-flames-begin


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